CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 476
A sad Nat King Cole tune wafted out of a crackling radio as the old man sat on his porch watching a glaring Las Vegas sunset. He liked the old songs because they reminded him of days passed by, of women gone by, of sources used and beaten until they were dry and dead, of things the way they used to be, the way they ought to be now. This particular man was not someone who found joy and satisfaction in all the rules and regulations that threatened to strangle and permanently exterminate the good law breaking way of life. The rifle that sat snake like quiet and snake like dangerous in his hands, laid across his lap like a sash of honor, silently agreed with him.
The heart attack struck quite suddenly, too many years of women, of cigarettes, of late night takeout orders culminating all of a sudden in throbbing pain and a massive thundering build up somewhere in his chest, like he was being flattened by a stampede of horses. The dots danced across his eyes like the stars he had intended to watch that night, and the snaky shotgun slipped to the floor, the very thing he had intended to shoot the cops with, the ones he knew were coming.
As the sun rose over Las Vegas the next morning, Conrad Ecklie had what an emotionally dead man might liken to an inner emotional smile. In this case, it was much easier to serve the search warrant when the person in hand was already dead. The missing parts of his face indicated, so far as the coroner was babbling on, some sort of animal having gotten at him during the night. As for the shotgun, well, it was all very good that the victim was dead then. It was also very lucky that the dead man’s switch he had been sitting on had been poorly made, and the cache of explosives inside the house had not blown up.
There was something very nice about the way it all had worked out, and having the guy dead would make it all that easier to rip apart his belongings and see into all the secrets he had indicated that he had hid away in special files, folders, secret hidey away places. It was nice he hadn’t shot anyone, it was nice that the explosive hadn’t blown up, it was, in a way, nice that the animals had chewed at his face, a kind of justified end for someone who was rumoured to have had a lifetime full of tying people to chairs and shooting them in the face. All in all, it was nice, and somewhere, deep down, an emotion existed, empty, largely blank emotion that was the closest the Dayshift would get to happy on that day, let alone any day at all.